Hall of Secrets (A Benedict Hall Novel) (15 page)

“It should be private,” Ramona said primly. “Not a government matter.”

Her sister-in-law’s opinion was so similar to the one Frank had expressed that Margot had to look into the fire while she fought a fresh wave of irritation. It all seemed so obvious to her, so self-evident. How could it be, she asked herself, that she saw things so differently from her sister-in-law? The two of them had grown up in the same way, in comfortable and traditional families, never wanting for anything, never having to question the ways of the world.

To be fair, Ramona hadn’t seen the things she had. She hadn’t been present at the bedside of a woman dying of a botched and illegal abortion. She hadn’t presided at the birth of a baby to a fourteen-year-old girl who thought she couldn’t get pregnant her first time. She hadn’t made house calls in poor neighborhoods where parents struggled to feed far too many mouths, or where women begged her for some way to prevent further babies from coming—and not, as a male physician in New York had jocularly suggested, by telling their husbands to sleep on the roof. These were women with few choices in life, all of them hard ones. They were women worn down by childbearing, by child care, by want and worry.

When no one else seemed inclined to speak, Allison asked in a hesitant voice, “Cousin Margot? I still don’t understand what happened.”

“Ah. Sorry, Allison. Of course you don’t.” Margot leaned forward to set her empty glass on the low table. “Margaret Sanger is a passionate advocate of what she calls ‘family planning.’ She was almost jailed for teaching women about it in New York, and she goes around the country speaking to people, trying to get the obscenity laws changed.”

“But you agree with her,” Allison said.

“Yes, I do. About that, I do.” Margot drummed the arm of her chair with her fingers. “Ramona and I don’t see eye to eye on this, but I don’t think such information should be considered obscene. It’s—I think the word for it is
humane
.”

“The church doesn’t agree,” Dickson put in, but Margot saw the curl of his lips out of the corner of her eye. He was goading her, for the love of the argument.

“The opposition is impressive, Father. The church, the male legislators, the American Medical Association.” Margot turned to face Allison directly. “But I keep getting distracted from your question, Cousin Allison. What I learned today, and what made me angry, is that Mrs. Sanger has a special interest in controlling the Negro birth rate. And that of the Chinese, as well, or any other group she thinks is inferior.”

Dickson said, “Surely you read Sanger’s book, daughter?”

Dick put in, “She believes in eugenics.”

Margot nodded. “But she parts company with the movement in general, as I understand it. She wrote that heredity is not absolute. What I took from her book was that she wants to offer the same freedom to Negro women that she does to whites. But today, in the clinic, her manner toward Sarah was offensive. To say nothing of Blake! I was ashamed of bringing her here.”

Ramona put in helpfully, and perhaps trying to be conciliatory, “Sarah was Blake’s private nurse, Cousin Allison.”

“Yes,” Margot said. “She’s a fine nurse, and Blake is fond of her. She told me she’s used to being treated that way, and that infuriated me even further. Why should Sarah, an accomplished and educated woman, have to accept such treatment?”

“What are you going to do, daughter?”

“I’m going to move ahead with the Women and Infants Clinic,” Margot said. “And I’m going to teach—” She glanced around at her listeners. “Family limitation,” she said finally, choosing the euphemism with as much distaste as Ramona had expressed for the truer descriptor. “But,” she added with determination, “I’m not going to invite that woman to Seattle again.”

C
HAPTER
13

Allison felt very grown-up and independent as Blake held the door of the Essex for her, waited until she was seated, then closed it after she had tucked in the skirt of her coat. When he was in the driving seat, he said, “Straight to Dr. Margot’s clinic, Miss Allison? Or is there somewhere you need to go first?”

Allison tried to behave as if she were used to giving orders. “I’ll just go to the clinic.” And then, hastily, “Thank you, Blake.”

He touched his cap with his fingers and said gravely, “You’re most welcome, miss.”

Allison settled back against the burgundy plush seat. She admired the automobile’s pristine windows and the perfumes of fresh polish and wax that filled it. It was ever so much nicer than even the nicest taxicab. Blake drove at a decorous pace down Aloha and onto Broadway, giving her time to gaze at the Christmas decorations that had begun to appear in picture windows and storefronts. Just that morning, Hattie and the twins had started hanging cedar garlands brought up to Benedict Hall on a horse cart. Cousin Ramona had made Cousin Dick late for the office by cajoling him into climbing into the attic for the cartons of decorations, because Blake was forbidden to use the ladder. Cousin Dick’s loud, insincere complaints about being misused had set everyone laughing, even the maids and Hattie.

Allison’s own home had never been like this, servants and family working together, everyone giggling and calling orders. Cousin Dick might pretend to be put upon, but he was obviously very much in the spirit. Allison’s father would have simply snapped at Adelaide to get a handyman if the butler couldn’t handle the task, and Adelaide would have pursed her lips and then snapped at someone else to vent her temper.

Allison thought about Cousin Margot as the motorcar turned off Madison onto Post Street. She had to admit there was something about her she liked, and it wasn’t just that she hadn’t betrayed her to Uncle Dickson and Aunt Edith or called her father to report her transgression. That was part of it, but not all. Cousin Margot had a way of speaking that made you think she meant every word she said. She had a trick of looking directly into your face as if she was really interested in you, not to find fault, but to understand you.

Allison knew her mother wasn’t impressed by Margot. Adelaide had much preferred Cousin Ramona, and especially Cousin Preston, over the cousin who was a lady doctor. She derided Margot’s plain skirts and shirtwaists, her simple hairstyle, her lack of rouge or lipstick.

Allison decided her mother was missing the point. Cousin Margot always looked—
right,
was the word that came to mind. She looked right, for her personality as well as for her profession. She looked right for herself.

“Here we are, miss,” Blake said. Allison started and realized that the Essex had stopped and turned at the end of the short street. Blake was already getting out of the car, taking his cane in one hand, reaching for her door with the other. She gathered her coat around her and climbed out to gaze at the small, neat building that was her cousin’s medical clinic.

You couldn’t miss it, that was certain. A sign hung over the front door, reading in proud red letters, M. BENEDICT, M.D. A short brick walk curved up to two shallow steps and a small stoop. The walls were an inviting cream, and the entrance door was painted a cheerful blue.

“Aren’t you coming in, Blake?”

He shook his head. “No, miss. It’s better for me to wait here.”

“But I might be a while.”

He smiled, drawing deep creases in his dark face. “I have a book to read, miss. Don’t you worry about me. Go on in.”

She felt, suddenly, reluctant. Beyond that blue door were mysteries she couldn’t fathom, illnesses and wounds and conditions she could never name. She thought of her mother saying, “Our
bodies,
” in that voice of distaste. In this clinic Cousin Margot was M. Benedict, M.D. A doctor. A person who had secret knowledge of people’s bodies, and who had power over them. Who looked at them, touched them.

What was she doing here, silly Allison Benedict, who didn’t know anything? Perhaps she had made a terrible mistake.

Blake, behind her, said calmly, “I could certainly walk you to the door, Miss Allison.”

She took a short, sharp breath to steady herself and glanced at him. “Oh, no, Blake. Thank you.” She gathered her courage, such as it was, and turned back to the clinic. If she wanted to understand Cousin Margot better, this was a fine place to start. There probably weren’t any sick people in there yet anyway. “I’m on my way,” she said, and marched up the brick walk.

 

The minute she opened the blue door, Allison saw she had been mistaken about the sick people. The reception room, smelling of new paint and freshly ironed curtains, had been furnished with a handsome blue divan, several straight chairs, a low table, and a substantial oak desk at one side. A young woman in a nurse’s apron and starched cap sat behind the desk, talking to a man in the coveralls and plaid cotton shirt of a workman. The man was bent forward as if he were in pain. He clutched his flat cap to his chest with one hand, and with the other he held a bloodstained handkerchief over one eye.

Allison froze just inside the door, her stomach quivering. The nurse, a stocky girl with black hair and thick black eyebrows, nodded to the man, rose, and disappeared through an inner door. She was back almost immediately with Cousin Margot. Margot, in a blindingly white coat and wearing a stethoscope around her neck, caught sight of Allison, and gave her a swift wave before she put her hand under the man’s arm and guided him through the door.

The nurse closed the door behind them and turned back toward the desk. Seeing Allison, she said, “Goodness! We’re not even open yet. Do you need to see the doctor, too?”

“No,” Allison said, and then amended, “well, yes. But not as a patient.” She straightened her shoulders and crossed the room to stand opposite the desk. “I’m Dr. Benedict’s cousin. I’ve come to—to help plan the reception. The tea, I mean. For the clinic opening.”

“Is the doctor expecting you?” the nurse asked, rather primly, Allison thought.

“Didn’t she say anything?” Allison asked.

“No, but we’ve had a busy morning. The word got out, I believe, that Dr. Benedict is here. There were patients waiting on the stoop when I arrived.”

Allison was surprised by the swell of pride this news gave her. Her cousin Margot was an important person. She wished her mother could see Margot here in her clinic, with her shining hair and direct gaze and confident manner. Indeed, Margot was so important she didn’t need to worry about the opinions of people like Adelaide Benedict. Or care. That would be so marvelously emancipating!

She said to the nurse, holding out her gloved hand with her best debutante courtesy, “How do you do? I’m Allison Benedict. I’m going to plan the—the occasion,” she added hastily, as the nurse’s brows drew together. Truly, it wouldn’t be mere vanity to pluck those. They looked like black caterpillars.

But then the nurse smiled and put out her own hand, and Allison saw that she was actually quite young. “I’m Angela Rossi,” she said. “I hadn’t heard anything about a tea, but I think it’s a swell idea. Make it official!” The two girls shook hands, and Angela added, “I was lucky to get this position, you know, Miss Benedict. If Dr. Benedict does well, I will, too!” She grinned, and Allison found herself chuckling at her frankness.

The door to the reception room opened, and Margot put her head out. “Allison,” she said, “can you wait a few minutes? Nurse Rossi, I need you here. We’ll have to suture Mr. McDonald’s laceration, and then you can bandage it for him.”

They both disappeared, leaving Allison alone in the reception room.
Laceration. Suture.
Such interesting words, implying so much drama, but tossed off casually, as if Cousin Margot said them all the time. Allison was impressed. And, actually, she thought, as she turned to survey the room, the sight of the bloody handkerchief hadn’t been that upsetting, not when Cousin Margot was about to set everything right.

 

Margot set Angela to cleaning the laceration over the patient’s eye with hydrogen peroxide while she prepared an injection of cocaine solution. Mr. McDonald groaned once or twice while Angela worked on him, and Margot said, “It won’t hurt for long, Mr. McDonald. I’m going to inject a topical anaesthetic, and then you shouldn’t feel much at all beyond the tugging of the sutures. You were fortunate that the chain missed your eye.”

“Foreman was afraid I’d gone blind,” the patient muttered. He was a construction worker, Margot knew now, and had been helping to unload a stack of lumber. A chain under too much tension had apparently broken, and whipped back to catch Mr. McDonald across the forehead.

“You haven’t gone blind, I’m glad to say. There’s always a lot of blood with head wounds, because it’s a highly vascular area. It looked frightening, but it’s going to be fine. You’re going to miss some work, though.”

“I won’t get paid if I don’t work, Doc Benedict.”

“You can’t work if you get an infection, either, Mr. McDonald.” It was a story Margot had heard many times, and it was the sort of thing she and her father argued about. She insisted there should be some sort of allowance made for workers injured on the job, and her father held the position that such allowances would create malingerers. They had never resolved the issue. She would do her best to insist, at least, that the shipping company pay her bill.

The procedure went smoothly, and Mr. McDonald, once the anaesthetic took effect, lay quietly on the examination table while she worked. She took time with her stitches. The wound was irregular, and she did her best to minimize the scar it was going to leave, removing one or two stitches, replacing them with better ones. When she was done, she stepped back, nodding to Angela as she pulled off her gloves. “Sprinkle with iodoform powder, Nurse, and then plenty of gauze. Mr. McDonald, no washing until I’ve seen you again, all right?”

Beneath Angela’s hands, she saw him grin. “Will you tell the wife that, doc?”

Margot chuckled. “If I need to, absolutely.” She laid her palm on his trousered knee. “Now, be sure the bandage stays clean. Nurse Rossi will finish here and give you an appointment to have the stitches removed. I’ll see you then.”

“Thanks, Doc Benedict. Thanks a lot.”

“You’re quite welcome, Mr. McDonald.”

Margot was already out of the examination room when she realized what he had called her. Doc. Arnie at the diner called her doc, too, and some of the other working people on Post Street. Preston, when he was alive, had called her doc. She paused for a moment, her hand on the latch of the reception room door, and searched for some feeling about it, some reaction to the memory of Preston. Surely she should feel something. Nostalgia, sadness, even anger.

All she could find was relief. She gave her head a small, private shake and went out into the reception room.

“Cousin Allison,” she said, glad to see the girl was still there. “Sorry to keep you waiting! It’s been quite a day.”

Allison smiled, and Margot noticed how much better her color was, how smooth her skin looked. “Nurse Rossi told me,” Allison said. “You’re already busy, and not officially open yet.”

Margot smiled back. “Surprising, isn’t it? In the past, sometimes we went entire days without seeing anyone. Now we’ll just see whether any of these people can actually pay their bill.”

“Sometimes they don’t?” Allison said in wonder.

Margot laughed. “Often they don’t!”

“But you—you see them anyway?”

“Oh, yes,” Margot said. “They need help.” She tipped her head to one side, looking into Allison’s face in her direct way. “It’s not that they don’t want to pay, you know. Too many of the patients I see only come here out of desperation. We’ll see if this spanking new clinic attracts a few patients who actually have something in their pocketbooks.”

“Well,” Allison said. She held out her hands to indicate the reception room. “It’s very nice, Cousin Margot. I do think a table would be good, for the occasion, someplace to put the refreshments when people come to tour the clinic.”

“It sounds fine, Allison. How about flowers?”

“Oh, people will send those,” Allison said with confidence. “They always do, when they see the announcement. You just have to make sure it’s printed in the
Times
. And the other papers, too.”

“You have experience, I see,” Margot said. “I leave it all in your hands, then. If you need anything, ask Ramona—she’s a wizard with everything social.”

“And Hattie,” Allison said. “I thought I would ask Hattie to make cookies. At least, if Aunt Edith doesn’t mind. Hattie loves to bake, I believe.”

“That she does. She’ll be delighted. Come now, I’ll show you the rest of the place.”

They passed Mr. McDonald and Nurse Rossi in the hallway, which was wide enough now for more than one person to walk at a time. With pride, Margot opened the door to the second examination room, then showed Allison the storage room. It was spacious and orderly, packed with cartons and boxes and carefully shelved supplies. Frank’s hand was evident in every detail.

They paused in Margot’s office, and Allison gazed up at her diplomas, replaced by the university since the fire, and displayed on the wall opposite the mahogany desk. Her gaze took in the shelf of medical books, the
Materia Medica
and her treasured Manual of Surgery. “You must have been in school a long time,” Allison said.

“It certainly seemed like it! I had a lot to learn.”

“I wish I could go to college,” Allison said. Her cheeks reddened all at once, then paled again. “Papa says there’s no point.”

“Allison—sit down for a moment. We’ve had no chance to talk.”

Allison turned obediently and settled into the armchair opposite Margot’s desk. She looked suddenly tense. Margot said carefully, “I hope I’m not taking advantage of you, asking you to manage this party.”